Grunt and Zaeed
by JoeLaTurkey
Summary: "Gabby and Ken" spinoff. Explores the relationship between an aging warrior and his protege.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Mass Effect Universe  
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**The Gabby and Ken spinoffs have begun! Where they will end, nobody knows. **

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><p>A few seconds had been the difference. In those few seconds Okeer <em>should <em>have reached for his protective mask. Instead he'd recorded a message on the terminal by the tank. The laboratory's doors parted and in came Commander Shepard, Zaeed Massani, Mordin Solus and the two Cerberus agents – Lawson and Taylor. They collectively sighed in frustration; Okeer was sprawled before his masterpiece, the life gone from his ancient eyes.

_Nothing's changed really, _thought Zaeed Massani as a very familiar mission pattern began to once again unfurl in the dying moments of combat. _Only difference between now and fifteen years ago is it was a goddamn AI that gave me the news. _

The news was that this mission would be a partial success, a mixed blessing, a sweet bowl of punch with only a modest turd thrown in. He'd known what would happen from the moment EDI described Okeer's vital signs as 'fading.' Zaeed knew krogan too well; they were pretty damn stubborn, especially as they aged. Okeer was never going to choose safety over the recording of a dramatic, menacing speech.

The bulk of Blue Sun forces were dead, their hideously undeveloped krogan were dead and the big-mouthed bitch Jedore was dead.

_Now Okeer's fucking dead!_

Zaeed had once again followed Shepard's orders to perfection and taken the initiative when the situation called for it. Shepard had led him, along with the others, through a merc-infested marathon of shit-smelling foulness few could imagine, on literally the galaxy's trash-hole and they'd be denied the satisfying closure of ticking every mission objective box. What a waste.

_Still, gotta look on the bright side I'spose. There's never any harm in lowering the galaxy's Blue Sun count._

Realising that the air in Okeer's lab was safe to breathe, he removed his helmet and brushed the sweat from his uneven brow.

Zaeed was forty, but noticeably aged both inside and out by his experiences. To most he appeared to be a man of fifty, and in the eye of the less flattering beholder, sixty. The short, closely cropped hair on his battered head was iron grey with only thin strips of their youthful black remaining. He was clad in unique, Terminus-fashioned yellow and white armour that left his right arm exposed, not unlike a Roman gladiator. The arm was worn and aged but still strong, covered with grim, dark green tattoos.

Zaeed's haggard, misshapen face told the most interesting tales – far more macabre and miraculous than those in ink on the arm. It looked like a wax sculpture that had long ago been brushed by a flame, dooming its normal human likeness to aesthetic oddity. Flesh appeared to have flared and bubbled in some areas, in others it was cracked and dry. Scars meandered over his face like rusty, neglected train tracks over rolling hills. His eyes were mismatched; the left was small and beady with a sinister dark green colour like the tattoos. The right technically wasn't his, but a silvery grey prosthetic that could easily have been mistaken for a common transplant. Zaeed's current employer was the first man in several years he'd come across with an artificial eye, and the first man he'd ever come across with two. The mercenary had never seen The Illusive Man in person or picture form, but had heard plenty disconcerted and unfavourable whispers from all the Cerberus operatives he'd killed over the years. It was only when Shepard had repeated the story that he had fully believed it. They were unnaturally bright with strangely-patterned irises which added to his mystique and powers of intimidation. But Zaeed really didn't care for such unecessary pretension, and didn't need one of the several reminders of Vido's betrayal on his face to look any prettier; the silvery right eye was a replacement to the green one Vido had blasted out but it got the job done and that was all that mattered. He looked at the tank in the room's far corner.

_So that's Okeer's pet project. _

It was certainly based on collector technology. The krogan couldn't have been anything but the gently-crafted trophy of a millennia-old madman. Its skin was a garish orange – unmarked; not yet boasting an array of scars, wrinkles and blemishes and not yet the faded, dull yellow of the mature krogan. Its muscles bulged audaciously, veins throbbing with alarming power against the curved encasement of thick and shining armour. Zaeed never thought he'd see a suit of armour this big, or for that matter, a sapient that could fill it to almost excess. That Blood Pack son of a whore Gizzarck may have shat himself and gone down like a whimpering wet-nurse, but he'd still shown up in one hell of a getup. Zaeed didn't pry trophies from just _anyone's _corpse.

The krogan's eyes were a truly remarkable feature – huge and perfectly round with electric blue irises. The pupils were like two tall black diamonds. But they appeared to be unfocused, and Zaeed wondered what mind if any brewed behind the great orbs. Was this legacy a sleeping monster on the verge of awakening, ready and able to replace the recently-vanquished one curled up and dead on the floor before the tank? Was this massive tank a shimmering glass Pandora's Box, the first and greatest step towards the return of the unstoppable Horde that haunted the dreams of a million traumatised asari matriarchs? Zaeed examined the rock-hard orange skin and saw that the krogan's brow was furrowed, a cleft in the ground from the rumbling of an earthquake. His shining, undeveloped headplate – the feature most accurately showing this creature's young age – looked like a row of smooth stones that tessellated perfectly. It was not yet chipped by combat or adorned with clan paint. Zaeed wondered if he'd ever be able to pull the thing off when it fully developed, even with his best knife stuck in just right. He was disappointed by Okeer's death, furious that Jedore had so easily outwitted the team, but despite his ire, hopeful.

_If this kid ain't totally insane, we've found ourselves one hell of an asset. _

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><p>First there is the blackness of unknowing, of nothingness. Then comes the Voice which instantly melds with your being and begins your completion. The Voice is kind and guiding. It knows all things and will give you its knowledge. The darkness you behold is leavened by a lone, daring pin prick of light. The light swells and shifts, it pulses and throbs as if alive and you realise that it <em>is <em>alive because you are alive. The light blazes and burns and sears your mind's eye, never resting or permitting you to – rest is only for those that have weakened, and you have barely begun at this point.

Your education begins. You see images, hear words, feel feelings. Your senses are tested constantly. The images are innumerable. You see flashes of the past and present, then visions of all possible futures. You see through the eyes of Warlords, heroes of your people as they came and went, leaving their bloody marks on the pages of history. The Voice shows you their memories and triumphs but never their fears. Fear isn't for you, it has no place inside one such as you. Millennia of myth, legend and history flashes in your mind. The levels of clarity vary depending on how the Voice sees fit. Some days you hear Shiagur's unforgettable words and some days you look into the crazed eyes of Veeol , the Lord of Chaos.

But the Voice reminds you that these are but pale imitations, images and nothing more. Sometimes you try to raise a mighty fist to crush the disgusting plate-covered faces and snap the three-tined fringes of the turians. The Voice somehow intervenes, tells you that you are meant for better things. You can't move yet because you're not complete, not yet free.

The Voice speaks again and you know that it is pleased with you. Then it comes without warning. For the first time you know it: pain. It violates you, white-hot daggers stab into your very being, torturing you without mercy and indifferent to the agony you feel. And you cry, weep…you try to writhe but can't because you're immobile. You're currently useless. The scream is there but it never leaves your body so your mind will have to voice it. There is no widening of your large eyes or twitching of your magnificent muscles so your mind; the very thing that allowed you to experience and appreciate the Voice; the very thing that saved you from the blackness and nothingness lets out the scream. Before your loyalty to the Voice wanes it gives its reason.

"_You must know this to conquer this. Many before you have failed. They are gone."_

You endure the pain for days without reprieve. Your mind screams further and you want to die but you remain right there, trapped in your own head and unable to move.

Then the pain ends and you still exist, so you must have passed the test. You feel like you now know everything there is to know about pain. It's engrained, you just _know._

The Voice speaks.

"_Our people have always said that the Nathak know blood no matter the womb. For you the womb is this tank. It's not natural but superior."_

You don't move because you're not even in the real world, not yet. You're developing; you're in utero; relying on the machines that power the tank and nutrients within the tank. One day you'll be free – _birthed _but not needing the years of education that sapient babes require, for the Voice gives these things to you. The tank's images delve into your mind and give themselves freely, adding to the rich tapestry that was once but a pin prick of light over the nothingness. You feel emotions and know words and places and people and things. But it is what you _don't _know and haven't felt – what you must discover for yourself that the Voice declares to be of utmost importance. You have not killed yet but simply _must, _you have not known a female mate but _must. _

The education continues. Hours turn to days, days to weeks, weeks to months, months to years but you're only dimly aware of the time. Time isn't a priority. The Voice is in no hurry. You are pleasing to the Voice because you have been made with such painstaking care. Every image given by the tank is understood, every word of advice given by the Voice is remembered.

You are given doses of pain, shown images and you learn all of them with undying diligence. You latch onto the words and images. You familiarise yourself with them. You repeat the words and describe the images in your mind.

Then the Voice tells you that you must see something special. This will be the clearest image yet.

Canrum is the last bastion of the Horde in the waning Glory Days of their Rebellions. It blazes with the ravages of war. The cursed turians – a word that almost makes you retch – have bombed it into a husk of what once was. Ashes swirl without direction in the cruel winds. Flames dance like mocking phantoms over the surface, razing your people and all they hold dear. The eloquent Warlady Shiagur, the fertile female with her armies of subservient men, calls out her final words as the dancing phantoms become an endless flaming tide. The flames wipe out the last of her vanguard. You strain, trying to hear the words but the bombs of the turian bastards are thundering so hard you can't even hear her. The words are spoken but incoherent.

The images change and your anger subsides. These were better times for your people. You're on another planet. You're on a mountain overlooking the land beneath. The Voice has never mentioned this planet's name but you don't care because your people have conquered so many that there's little use in keeping track, you just march on and claim the next one. You study the land beneath the mountain, letting your gaze wonder from the rocky slopes all the way to the horizon. At first you think it's just a featureless, colourless desert. But it ripples, the air fills with thuds so loud they eclipse the turian bombs that destroyed Canrum. You're not looking at a desert. You're not looking at the land at all. You're looking at the Horde, marching off into the distance. Not one speck of land is visible as far as the eye can see. The Horde covers everything. Their numbers are beyond anything you have ever seen, they're like grains of sand on a dune. The Horde grows clearer. Every warrior is armoured and armed to the teeth. You know there must be many clans within this crowd but today they march as one Horde with one battle song that begins to fill the air and drown out even their marching. You _beg _the Voice for answers.

How can they be defeated?

How can it possibly end?

Then the Voice tells you the most infuriating thing of all. Even the Voice cannot contain its anger, and your intimate joining to the Voice causes you to share in its displeasure. It tells you the tale, bringing up the species you studied years ago in the tank's images. It brings up a name you heard.

"_Salarians."_

The feeble ones. Short-lived, slight of build, incapable of fighting krogan directly.

"_Their weapon was unleashed by the turians."_

You know that name well enough, and almost retch again.

The tale is almost done when the Voice finally offers you a single word. You latch onto this word like all the others. You familiarise yourself with it and repeat it in your mind. But this time your zeal is strongest for this is the greatest curse you will ever know. This word carries more history than the most scholarly asari matriarch, more weight than all the planets of the DMZ, more power that the greatest of the Tuchanka-born Maws.

"_Genophage."_

Anger rises in you as the Voice gives you the word. It has for so long been called the bane of the krogan, the scar we all bear as punishment for the rebellion – they call it the downfall of the Horde and all its dwindling descendants. But then the Voice tells you something you did not expect. The genophage ended the weak and left only the strong, of which you are the pinnacle. You will carry the genophage.

"_Defy the blasted turians and salarians and wear it like a badge of honour!" _

Your anger turns to pride and eventually arrogance. You love it, you are the evolution of your people. The Horde is a thing of the past. It exists only in the pages of history and there it will stay because in the future there is no Horde, there is only…you.

You will eliminate the need for another Horde. You possess all of their strengths and none of their weaknesses. You are the greatest thing the genophage ever caused. The turians and their cowardly salarian puppets will regret ever unleashing their little bioweapon. The genophage led to only the strong surviving.

It led to you.

The Voice speaks again. You are complete. The Voice is pleased, even joyous.

Then the Voice turns strangled and husky. The foundations of your whole world shake. Is this weakness? It speaks to another, you are envious. Endless wisdom and all power held by the Voice has been shared with another – _Shepard._

"_If I knew why the collectors wanted humans, I'd tell you." _

The Voice speaks your name in its final words, letting you know the final detail, your own name. You are a legacy but have not been named as such. You are a perfect and pure krogan but will never be named as such.

"_This…Grunt."_

'Grunt.' It's simple, powerful and memorable. The name Grunt is brief enough to fully grace the lips of awestruck enemies in their final moments. So brief it can never be interrupted by the bombs of the turian bastards.

The Voice is silent for days. Everything changes.

The safety of your cell is compromised. All confines break open. Dreams, shadows of the past and the words of long-dead krogan will not suffice in this single moment. All you need are your survival instincts, you may be under attack. Light – real light in its far more potent and intrusive form invades your mind's eye – no – your _real _eyes. Your lids flutter and you blink rapidly in an attempt to adapt to this change.

The Voice is gone, it's not coming back.

You are grateful for the images because they prepared you for this – the emptying of the tank. Finally all your actions are physical, tangible. You feel your limbs spring free and move. They're huge; tree trunks from the Tuchanka rainforests of old. You could snap a Nathak with these hands. Your organs flare up and live at last, primary, secondary and tertiary. Three hearts pound like the feet and battle songs of the Horde. Six lungs try but fail to suck in air but there's something in your mouth. You choke and spit out the now-useless nutrient liquid. Choking is a weakness. You hate weakness, weakness has not been a part of you since the Voice gave the pain and you cried pathetically. Your eyes see not tank-issued images of the past or visions of the future but reality as it truly is here and now. You know what this place is – the Voice taught you well and the images were always clear enough. You're in the cargo hold of a starship of human design.

_Humans – bipedal mammals that live an average of 150 years; stronger but less agile than asari, longer-lived and stronger but less intelligent than salarians, most comparable to turians or drell physically, capable of wielding biotic power but never naturally._

You have only a few seconds to process this. Your three hearts beat strongly, causing your veins throb against the armour which almost feels tight around you. You don't yet see the armour but you know it's magnificent. No other krogan could wear your armour – it's too big.

Your quickly-clearing eyes swivel up and you see more than the room's lower half and metal-panelled floor. You see one of the humans aboard the starship. It's opened your tank, it's _birthed _you, but you feel no endearment or kinship for it. The human is a fool. You can't see a single weapon or armour plate on it. It must think you're here to talk. It can't know the strength of your desire to kill. What you feel is not the legendary Blood Rage, only the pounding of three hearts, the adrenaline rush and the ragged breaths, courtesy of your six lungs.

This is an ordinary rage, nothing more than a standard krogan survival instinct. You move with the speed and power the Voice always knew you were capable of and have no trouble grabbing the pathetic human and pinning it against the wall opposite. Every one of your physical qualities has worked in accordance with the Voice's desire.

The human doesn't even bother squirming; he's one jerk of your arm away from a snapped neck. With him firmly in place and not going anywhere unless you decide; you utter your first real words and relish them because you're once again reciting the truths of the Voice.

"Human. Male."

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><p><strong>I know what you're thinking. This is done in a totally different tone to Gabby and Ken. I want a realistic portrayal and development of these characters and couldn't do it in the laugh-a-minute bawdiness of Gabby and Ken. Rest assured there will be humour here, but a Grunt and Zaeed story in my mind was always going to be more of a black comedy. <strong>

**This story may be my central focus for a while now. I'm suddenly finding myself gifted with plenty of free time but writer's block over the others, but feel free to read them if you haven't yet and want more context. **


	2. No Purpose

**So it seems I've become more of a clown than a serious writer. Time to fix that. **_  
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><p><em>War is the Goddess' way of teaching krogan geography.<em>

_- Matriarch Enralya – 'The Memoirs of an ex-Commando' (182 C.E. Edition)_

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><p>The human gave his strength a single, tentative test; squirming under his arms but making no real escape attempt. He beheld it with contempt. The tank spoke of humans with an expectant malevolence, relishing the eventual conflict they would bring to an already bloodthirsty world – they were newcomers on the galactic stage, yet already showing formidable potential. Humans were somehow renowned militarily; they sat on the Council (the word almost made him retch) after less than three decades of riding the coattails of the galaxy's Mass Relay Network. But the education of his synthetic womb specialised in weakness.<p>

Yes; these strange-looking bipeds from Earth were crafty and inward thinking; their history was one dripping with blood – though upon wracking his brilliant brain, he could not recall any event in the story of humanity not eclipsed by that of the krogan. What was the key to their supposed potential?

The human wore an officer's uniform, but where were its battle scars? Where was its aura, its presence?

He saw nothing to coincide with the suspicions voiced in the tank.

But then again, what was the most vehement lesson taught by the tank; the one constantly repeated to him?

_Expect the unexpected…_

He sniffed it.

_Male._

_Between the age of 25 and 30._

_15 minutes post-coital._

But enough of these meaningless statistics. He was about to die. The time for further learning would come after his prized first kill.

"Before you die, I need a name."

His voice was a low, powerful rumble; thick with authority, carrying unavoidable promises of carnage. It was like a tribal war horn – ominous, preceding a grand scene of slaughter. He sounded like Jarrod, Veool…and the Voice…

"I'm Commander Shepard of the Normandy," said the human with a feeble attempt at impressing him.

Foolish human. Why did it narrow its eyes and grit its teeth like that? Was that the lowest its voice went? Did it honestly think itself threatening? Yet it commanded a ship! How insulting.

"Not your name, mine. I'm trained, I know things. But the tank…"

He suddenly knew something, just _knew _it. It was as if an unseen, unknown compartment in his brain opened, just like it had whenever the Voice gave him knowledge and images without resorting to the tedious medium of conventional education.

_Okeer. The Voice. The true nature of the Voice. Just another krogan.  
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"…Okeer couldn't imprint. His words are hollow.

'Warlord'

'Legacy'

'Grunt'

Hmm, Grunt. Grunt was among the last…"

The memories; one of the last offered to him by the tank resurfaced. His name – short, powerful and memorable, brief enough to grace the lips of the unworthy as they met their end. But what did it mean? Where was his God? His _Voice? _Okeer was gone, his clan was buried in the cruel soil of Tuchanka. There was no history, no etymology to follow. He felt a stab of envy.

_Shiagur – Derived from the Abrath tongue 'Shia'; prophetess of the Maroth Blood Clan and 'Garur'; The Great Orator of the Old Tales. _

_Kredak – 'He who dwells in the house of the worthy'_

_Veool – Beyond control; named after the cyclone that destroyed Korvann during the Second Age_

_Urdnot – Defunct Jobroth word for 'survival' (masculine variant)_

_Grunt – …_

"…it has no meaning."

Certainty and focus returned. Pride welled up in his chest. This would be him name for the bloody centuries to follow. For the years of growing, perfecting, preparing, he would grant Okeer this one courtesy – to go by the name uttered with his dying breath. A smile creased his smooth orange face. How fitting it was. _Grunt – _the last word uttered by the legendary Okeer – a name for the first of the pure krogan, given by the last of the failed Rebel Commanders.

"It'll do." He leaned in closer to the helpless creature. "I am Grunt. If you are worthy of your command, prove your strength and try to destroy me."

"You wouldn't prefer Okeer? Or legacy?" said the insolent human.

"I am nobody's trophy!" he snarled. "Why would I go the moniker of a dead madman? I'm not a pale imitation of Okeer; I am his evolution. I'm everything he wanted to be!"

Okeer was dead, the Voice was silent. This deity to him had ultimately been weak and was gone, never to return. All loyalty he felt for the voice then died. For so long the Voice had known everything. For so long to him it _was_ everything. But then it withered away with a hapless groan, like an old varren with cancer in its belly and no more strength left to drag itself to the water hole. Doomed to decompose, eaten away by maggots, carried away by the wind.

Then everything else seeped out. His pride, his loyalty to the Voice, his admiration for the tank and all the secrets it offered. Two decades of adoration for Okeer and hatred for his enemies drained from his being. The feeling was like trying to recall a vague dream or keeping sand in an opened hand as it slipped through the fingers and out of reach, into the current of a cruel stream. It left a sudden, terrible emptiness. Dementia seemed to be ravaging his young brain. Nothing of what he wanted or believed in remained.

How appropriate. He was torn from his god, robbed of his idol, his deity; the Voice was dead to him. He was doomed to wander free of its purpose, an apostate from the moment of birth.

"But why Grunt?" Shepard choked, trying to partway pry the thick forearm off his Adam's apple.

"It's short. Matches the training in my blood…"

No loyalties. No purpose. No mission. Nothing but the rage, the _need_ to know a woman and end the lives of the unworthy. His training was short; efficient; not a moment wasted.

_Kill, conquer, survive, advance, __**be. **_

Then there were other words…boring words. Genealogies, dynasties, politics…all of them relating to Okeer's clan, Okeer's enemies; the people Okeer wanted to use him against like a common war-varren.

"The other words are big things I don't feel. Maybe they fit your mouth better. Humans have too many pretensions."

He screwed his eyes shut from an unexpected stab of pain in his mind's eye.

_They stood in ceremonial armour, trying to appear worth his attention. Okeer was easy enough to spot, with his sickly skin, overstated attire and mad eyes. He began to recite a speech and the scene changed, blurred into flashes of ancestors, descendants, friends, foes..._

_...Synarak, who begat Kol, who begat Ratha, who begat Brur, who slew the Kin of Uldra..._

What was the point of even listening?

_...who begat Amgarr, who was bonded to the Clan of Otosh, who conquered Trerrus in the First Age, which fell to...  
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That was it? That was Okeer, and all he had to offer in the way of enemies and legacy? There was his fabled 'Voice' in its wizened, feeble form. But that's all they were: memories. Past events with no further meaning.

He spoke again. He spoke the truth.

"I feel nothing for Okeer's clan or his enemies. I will do what I need to do – fight and determine the strongest…"

_Determine the strongest..._

_...the strongest..._

_...the worthy..._

He fell into the imprints tattooed onto his mind, his soul.

_Krogan Trial by Combat – the fate of General Barrin hung in the balance. The general's conduct during the Rachni War had turned his name to a poisoned utterance among almost all clans. Onlookers watched with bated breath and eager grins._

_Grunt viewed the scene as if stood in The Great Circle at the heart of Kredak's Fortress. Likenesses of every Warlord surrounded him, towered over him in their immortal stone forms; hewn from the single cylindrical wall. Their grey, scowling faces beheld the proceedings with him. History was about to be made. Justice was about to be done, and where else could it be done but in their sight? _

_The rachni were vanquished, and with them gone, the krogan were burdened with their final task – removing the last of the unworthy; stinking, shrivelled pods from the vine. Beneath the stone immortals were the krogan who hoped to one day succeed them, a council of the Thirteen Venerable Clans. _

_Nobody's armour shone; battle scars of skin and raiment honoured them. Only wasting your time fighting the unworthy left you unmarked. And the most worthy foe had just fallen, stomped into the gaseous mud of its miserable lair with all its brood. _

_Every suit of armour was massive; some of them almost rivalled Grunt's. He could make out all the sigils adorning immense yet intricately-wrought Battlemaster plates – the dual, entwined Thresher Maws of Urdnot, the screaming red-toothed Nathak of Weyrloc and the clenched, bleeding fist of Nakmor were the most striking. They were hand-carved, created with the blood of the fallen. He could make out Okeer in the crowd, looking young and strong, his skin bearing only a slight green-yellow tinge. He then saw Barrin, the disgraced prisoner, clad in impressive armour but with hand and foot chained together.  
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_Stood in the centre of the Council was the Shaman. He had no name, no clan, but nobody else was held in higher esteem on this day. He wore the shell of a rachni queen. The dead queen's head was now a hollow helmet cupping red and black head plating. Her blank eyes stared, unseeing into the stone face of Veeol, high above her. Her limp legs dangled precariously around the Shaman's massive body, dragging in the dust as he moved, bouncing with absurdity when he raised his arms. She was an insult in death._

_Kredak - Overlord of the entire star system, grasped his throne, which was hewn from the same unyielding rock that connected the shins of Veeol and Omgroth. It was a simple chair, placed on a mound of roughly-cut rachni corpses. He appeared to care not for the symbolism. His memories of the real thing were fresh, always capable of bringing a smile to his yellowed face.  
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_The Shaman threw a gauntleted arm upwards and the ceiling parted, letting in what little sunlight could creep through Tuchanka's grim air.  
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_It was impossible to tell the time of day on Tuchanka. Permanent, omnipresent clouds of ash greyed everything, hovered like a mist that descended in winter yet lingered through all seasons; the ravages of nuclear fire; a sign of things to come. All Grunt knew was that the sun was up. A lone, daring beam struck the circular chamber and settled on the Shaman, almost giving the queen's eyes a sparkle of life. Grunt was reminded of that daring pin-prick that began his education.  
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_Kredak locked eyes with the Shaman, who nodded and began reciting the hallowed words._

_ "The krogan grovel to nobody!" he boomed, turning to face every Battlemaster in a whirl of rachni limbs. "We fabricate no gods, we fear no mortals. We exist as the embodiment of strength. We celebrate the worthy, we end the unworthy. Our goal is the Void."  
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_He marched towards the chained Barrin, stopping with his painted face inches from the prisoner's. "And, General Barrin, how do we greet the Void?"_

_"Gladly," said Barrin with no emotion. "Proudly. If it is our time."_

_"And yet," said the Shaman, turning away and marching up and down amidst the council's ranks, "many of the krogan under you chose suicide."_

_Hissing, spitting on the floor and jeering erupted from the Battlemasters. Kredak's already formidable face soured further, his grip on the throne tightened._

_"What becomes of them?" the Shaman demanded of Barrin, getting close to him again._

_"They are left," said Barrin, "good to only be feasted upon by the Nathak, played with by the Maws, finished by the worms. The Void takes them in a pathetic state. Their bodies do not touch sacred ground."_

_"If," said the Shaman, turning away again. "Your Champion..." he nodded to an unremarkable krogan in an unremarkable black armoured suit..."prevails and triumphs over the Champion of our Overlord Kredak..." he motioned at a colossal warrior stood by the throne; wearing green Battlemaster plate. He was the spitting image of Kredak himself and for a moment Grunt spotted the room's beam of sunlight flicker on him..."then you will be granted the chance to leave in exile, taken by the Void with no clan, no worth in life or death. The two Champions will duel as our ancestors did. As the Immortals did in this very hall, centuries past."_

_ The Shaman then signalled to a pair of guards stood just outside the entry archway. They dissapeared for a moment before re-emerging with a long, red box. When it reached him, the Shaman drew a twisted key from one of the queen's pouches, and pried the container open. Inside were two swords. The first - which Grunt guessed was for Kredak's choice of combatant, was a notched greatsword, taller than an asari, bearing all thirteen sigils on its hilt. The second was a short stabbing sword of medium thickness. _

_"But," continued the Shaman. "Should Overlord Kredak's Champion prevail, you will face the excecution many feel you should have already been subjected to. You will die here, before your betters," he nodded to the Battlemasters and Overlord, "and before the Immortals," he gestured flamboyantly to all the stone watchers. "You will die here, without the chance to live out an exile of pleasure-seeking and wealth-gathering elsewhere."  
><em>

_He slapped gloved hands together and chanted something in the old Jabroth tongue, something Grunt couldn't decipher. The Venerable Battlemasters repeated these words and with that, the two Champions leapt forward, going for the kill without a moment's hesitation.  
><em>

_Oh, to have been alive in the time of steel and swords! Before long, Battlemaster cheers and taunts were drowned out by forboding clashes of blade on blade or armour. _

_Grunt saw emotion flare up in the face of Kredak's Champion as he effortlessly put together a flurry of punishing blows, greatsword slashing, stabbing, lurching, moving with its wielder's whole body. No other species found such simple, appreciative pleasure in the shedding of blood. The Champion's face and cry of delight was endlessly preferable to turian stoicism, asari 'dignity' or the salarian habit of avoiding man-to-man, hand-to-hand dueling. Despite the effortless flow of his attack (which beat back the Champion of General Barrin in seconds) Kredak's warrior had an admirable lack of finnesse. He was efficient, matching the training in Grunt's blood.  
><em>

_It took only a few moments for Grunt to figure out why Barrin had chosen such an unusual Champion. This small, black-armoured krogan was just like the chained General it fought for: cunning but cowardly. Like the salarians, it shied away from direct combat, the test of strength required of all true warriors. Barrin's champion showed no interest in engaging directly, he ducked and bobbed and wove away from blows, only bringing his patheric blade in when it was absolutely necessary. He seemed determined to wear Kredak's Champion out, hoping the encumberment of his armour and choice of weapon would be his downfall. All it took was one properly-timed blow...the moment he began to suck in air, sweat on his plate...  
><em>

_But this was no killing field of the Rachni War - where the irritating salarians threw in their cowardly input, relying on reconnaissance and sneaky Commandos. This was Tuchanka. This was a place where nothing could prevail **but **strength. Evolution was the coldest force in the universe. It let countless numbers die so that a dominant species could rise. Through murderous plant life, tunneling Maws, hordes of Nathak, dozens of nuclear wars - the krogan had not only tamed Tuchanka, but rose to the pedestal of a galaxy. Cunning would not be enough for Barrin's Champion, not in the place where Veeol's gaze saw all. _

_Veeol's gaze was quickly satisfied. Kredak's look of curiosity became a satisfied smile.  
><em>

_Several metres away from the Battlemasters and their intriuged Overlord, Barrin's Champion ran out of places to hide and realised that he would not outlast his foe. Kredak's Champion raised his weapon high above his head, until it too caught the chamber's lone light. He threw down a scything blow that Barrin's coward had no choice but to parry directly. They stood locked for almost a full minute, staring through crossed blades. But Barrin's Champion was shaking from the effort of maintaining his block. In a violent, jolting motion, Kredak's Champion thrust his hilt forward, catching his opponent's neck artery with the blade's base. He then broke the interlocking struggle as the smaller krogan's blood flowed over its black armour like an orange waterfall, pooling at their feet, swelling by the second. Kredak's Champion swept around his stunned adversary, gripped his blood-spattered chin and head, and broke his neck.  
><em>

_With Barrin's Champion gone, Kredak's chosen warrior wasted no time and was met with no resistance. He charged, raising the greatsword. Barrin leaned forward in solemnity, ready to accept the blow.  
><em>

_The great notched blade came down again with a shade more ferocity, cleaving through the General's leathery neck, cutting bone and removing his head in a single blow._

_Barrin's head rolled somewhat feebly away from the council, leaving its sanguineous stain in the dirt. A child of no more than six or seven, with an unusual headplate of pure red, appeared from the ranks of the taller Battlemasters and ran after it with infantile laughter. The Urdnot Battlemaster, who bore an identical headplate and matching eyes, stormed after the child with fury._

_ "JARROD!" he yelled. "PUT THAT DOWN!"_

_The child's celebration for having caught Barrin's head was cut short and he dropped his newest toy, covered in blood. He then stared up at his elder with wide, humbled eyes. _

_"This head," said the Battlemaster, "belonged to a worthless krogan. Its skull will not grace the Hollows. It will be left as food for the Nathak or Maw." _

_He snatched the head and threw it away, pointing a finger menacingly at the cowering Jarrod. "May you **never **desecrate the tradition of the krogan Hollows again!"  
><em>

_The fight was over, justice was done and the strongest had been determined. With the Void receiving its newest prey, Grunt's vision melted._

"…but his imprint has failed. _He _has failed."

Kredak's Champion...he was poetic; an artist on the battlefield. While Grunt was tied intimately to his actions, he could never share that cause. The rachni were gone, the genophage had ended their uprising. Such a vision had showed him the tail-end of the glory days. What was left for their species to do but go proudly into the Void? He widened his eyes further.

_What is this I feel? Defeatism? _

He was out of the tank too early. But the truth remained; he shared nothing with the krogan of old. What was Okeer trying to accomplish? The past was as dead as he. Resentment then turned to gratitude. The stab of jealousy that had dirtied his heart a few moments earlier turned to relief.

How good it was to have such a meaningless name!

"So you feel nothing for him at all?"

"Without a purpose that's mine, one fight is as good as any other."

He grew tired of this weedy human _'Commander,' _if he even was truly one. It asked too many pointless questions. What a dishonourable attempt to extend his own life.

"Might as well start with you." He increased his already dangerous pressure on the human's neck. It gasped and grimaced but stopped struggling. "We've talked long and you've made no attempt to destroy me; no attempt to prove the worth of your command."

Shepard was now red in the face from what Grunt guessed was anger as much as lack of oxygen. The human was provoked. Why did it still hesitate? It now had every reason to make its move.

"Is it that easy for Okeer's 'perfect krogan' to abandon his mission?" said Shepard.

The images flashed, Okeer's voice spoke:

_Reverse psychology – commonly used on sapient children. Humans show partiality towards the use of this technique. _

"Okeer is no god, not the all-knowing guide my tank-confined self saw him as. Okeer is just a mortal krogan voice speaking into the tank. And if his words are true then he created something stronger than him. So he's not worthy of me."

Okeer's clan…Okeer's enemies…long, boring words…genealogies, dynasties, politics he didn't care for…

"And if his hatreds aren't strong enough to compel me, they've failed too. I feel nothing. I have no connection. I hate the genophage, I hate its creators and users – but that is not exclusively related to Okeer. It is a universal trait of the krogan."

"Y'know, you should show more gratitude," said Shepard with another attempt at sounding threatening that would've been funny if it wasn't so pitiful. "Refusing an ally can bite you in the ass."

Grunt increased his pressure again. Shepard struggled, choked and spluttered. He started turning purple.

"You _DARE?" _Grunt hissed in a mere whisper to a krogan, though it carried the volume and weight of the most desperate human roar. "Betrayal is all we have been given! When the last rachni queen fell the asari and their turian and salarian puppets thought they could keep our favour by buying us off with inadequate worlds to colonise. We were given no aid when our numbers flew out of control, only condescension, warnings fit for disobedient children. And they paid. They _all _paid! Okeer had many flaws, many weaknesses. He hid behind the likeness of a deity as I grew – but he was right about what we've become. We are used; status symbols to nightclub owners, bootlickers to rich volus and turians and salarians. Our _story _is one of being betrayed by supposed 'allies!' And what ally are you?"

The human scowled at him, but seemed to be unusually focused. Grunt felt its hand slide down. He didn't inspect this movement – in the ludicrous event of Shepard getting through his armour, the Commander would still have to wade through flesh that could regenerate like no other krogan's.

"If I can brush an ally aside, there are of no use."

_Barrin's men were led to defeat. Barrin's men took their own lives rather than face the pain of a worthy end at the hands of a worthy foe. Barrin was no use as an ally to Kredak or any other Overlord – his severed head was not even fit to keep as a trophy for a child. _

"I'm stronger in every way. The tank showed me many imprints of human weakness – where to break your spine, the shortest path to organs. Your words are worthless."

"Really?" Shepard snarled, voice barely a whisper. "See that?" he said with a nod at a nearby terminal. "Okeer left plenty of data behind in the event of his death. Everything we need to know about your weaknesses, especially that armour of yours."

Grunt almost laughed in Shepard's face. He was bluffing, surely.

Shepard was finally through talking and Grunt found out the reason for the man's focused scowl and discreet hand movement. Bullets shot from the Commander's sidearm and tore, winding, into his flesh, deeply embedded, exploding inside him in red-hot shards.

_Modded rounds!_

He flinched; taken aback by the sound and the feeling. This was _true _pain, pain felt beyond the womb, outside of Okeer's experimentation. This pain's intensity did not equal that which he had felt all those years ago in utero – but it somehow seemed far more vivid.

"You _will_ back down!" Shepard thundered, firing more shots. Grunt dropped him and pulled away, driven further and further back by the splintering rounds cutting him deep.

Five. Six. Seven. Shepard's face was a mask of determined fury and fear. He fired again. Eight. Nine. Grunt almost fell to one knee; he felt little pain, but knew his body had started doing involuntary things. A trickle of thick, warm blood ran up from his throat and trickled between his big white teeth, finally hitting the floor with a pleasant splat.

_No bluff. The human researched my armour's weak points._

"Wise, Shepard," he said with an unexpected surge of reluctant respect for the human. "You offer one hand but arm the other." He examined his dripping wounds, they were expertly placed on his body. "You'll have mine if your enemies are worthy."

"My clan in strong and my enemies worthy," said Shepard, returning the smoking gun to its hiding place. "I fight the collectors; the potential ruin of an entire race, just like you were to the rachni."

"If you're the ones facing extinction, I see no reason why I should waste my time aiding the lesser species in this conflict," said Grunt flatly. "But that name...the collectors..."

Grunt closed his eyes and shook his head. It happened again. A mysterious compartment in his brain opened and he received another impartation of clandestine knowledge. Just as he had realised he was out of the tank too early, before Okeer could imprint absolute loyalty, Grunt knew this was a premature revelation.

_Collectors._

Okeer's voice spoke: _Collectors – bidepal mammals of undetermined origin or lifespan; known for extremely advanced technological accomplishment such as Relay manipulation. Commonly considered a myth to frighten Council races into staying within the confines of Citadel Space. Not enough additional information to allow for satisfactory inter-species comparison. _

_...You are made with their technology...there was no other way..._

The collectors were a cautionary tale told to keep children obedient, a myth to keep billions of sapients in line. They had to be called upon for his completion, and these days they threatened many. Grunt finally nodded in agreement and made a decision.

"The collectors are a worthy foe, a secret kept from me by the tank until I was ready. Very well Shepard...I will fight beside you."

"Alright then," said the Commander evenly. His eyes were narrow with suspicion and his hand still caressed the sidearm's hiding place, but he sounded less volatile. "But I'm warning you; don't pull that kind of shit again. I won't hesitate to jettison this entire-"

"Work on your threats, human," said Grunt. "I'll work with a team if it means I can get my chances to fight. You can be sure of my loyalty then."

Shepard nodded. "There's a turian and salarian on this ship, is that gonna be a problem?"

"Your crew will be a good bunch if they stay out of my way, a dead bunch if they don't."

Shepard seemed to accept this without needing to resort to more meaningless threats.

"I'm taking you to the armoury," said Shepard, pointing to the exploited weaknesses in his suit, which gushed with blood still. "Get that patched all the tank's images clear?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I wanna know how much Okeer had put in there relating to weapons, can you see anyth-"

"I'm no tech," said Grunt in a dismissive voice. "I was built to fight, that's what I'll do. But if the images clear, I will share any knowledge the tank gave."

"Good to know," Shepard said. "If you need to go to the armoury it's on-"

"I'm familiar with the layout of your ships human," said Grunt condescendingly.

"The Normandy isn't your everyday warship," said Shepard.

"Even the state-of-the-art Normandy," said Grunt, smug to see Shepard's eyebrows rise. "Your Alliance isn't as good as keeping secrets as you think. Okeer knew everything about both ships."

"What else did he leave in there?" said Shepard, who must have sounded casual enough to himself, but Grunt sensed his apprehension, and knew the Commander was reconsidering the worth of his decision to open the tank. Grunt showed no fear. He leaned forward, thrust out a hand and said

"Less than a finger deep to sever your spine. You're soft; humans, asari, salarians, drell. Quarians; not so much." He was recalling the lessons with the last remnants of his childlike eagerness, and scolded himself momentarily. "Turians…"

_The scum were raiding the mountainside fortresses of Korvann, tearing apart the krogan with rifle and electrified bayonet, shattering the stone halls with grenade launchers, spitting on thousands of years of history. Steel and stone parted as the ancient doors flew open. The turians charged into a vulnerable, narrow hallway. _

_But the defenders held their ground; riddling the turians' plated, painted bodies with grapeshot and warping them with dark energy fields, never giving an inch despite the perilously claustrophobic nature of the battle. _

_The krogan Palace Guard reached the heart of the fray, sounding their notorious battle cry. They drew huge, broad-bladed daggers from jagged armour and pelted towards the incoming turian crowd, brushing aside lesser krogan as they went. The Guard took every bullet with fierce pride, shrugged off the wounds with derisive laughter. The turian bombs were no good in this confined space. Salarian intel told them nothing, asari Commandos couldn't creep and slither their way in here. Turians were the most battle-hardened of the Council races, but with the rachni gone what threat did they truly pose? Since the end of that genocide Shaman after Shaman wove the words into the sacred Rite of Passage. _

'_And then the krogan were lifted to the stars,__ to destroy the fears of a galaxy, an enemy only we can chase to their lair.'_

_No threat was posed in this moment, in Korvann's halls. How could these turians win, when the krogan had already eradicated their worst nightmare? _

_The melee began. All weaknesses of turian armour were known by the seasoned Guard. Blue blood blossomed over the palace stone, coated the jagged armour and flew in streamers through the air. The dual-toned voices of the turians rang in the magnificent hall in the form of pained groans, shouts of agony and shock as pain took over and the life left them. Massive dagger blades thrust into their flesh again and again and again. Turian bones cracked, splintered and shattered. Their leathery skin came apart, flapping obscenely in the dim light as they struggled, kicked, bit, scratched and finally failed. _

_The Guard were relentless. They seized skewered turian bodies and flung them forwards, still charging shoulder-to-shoulder at the enemy and thrusting their knives out, piston-like. Bodies, dead and living, collided once more. Blue blood gushed everywhere. Where was the use of their poorly-constructed military doctrine now? Even their acclaimed armours and kinetic barriers had no answers for the Guard._

_And then the last was driven out. The great doors of Korvann, archaic but durable, closed with an ominous crash of steel on stone and a mocking roar of triumph rang off the walls._

Shepard was staring at him expectantly, furrowing his brow.

"…have to work the blade," Grunt finished. He frowned and shook his head. The Siege of Korvann as good as ended the Rebellions, yet the short-sighted Warlords insisted on using careless tactics for the sake of tradition when change was needed.

"Doesn't seem to be much point."

_Red-tipped teeth of a screaming Nathak…entwined Thresher Maws…children playing Tackle the Varren…_

He laughed. "Ha! 'Much point.' "

Shepard nodded impatiently. "Let's get you fully tested then, see what you can do combat-wise." He jerked his head at the sealed door and turned away, indicating it was time to go.

Grunt joined his side, and when the Commander opened the door, the krogan was greeted with another surprising display of human ruthlessness.

"Zaeed, WAIT!"

* * *

><p><strong>Well, there's chapter two - containing both paragon and renegade options for recruiting Grunt.<br>**

**I've decided to axe all Shepard's interaction with them as the mission progresses; only their relationship will be chronicled. I've also decided to do this from their POVs exclusively.**


End file.
